


It's Not Your Job To Think

by ashford2ashford



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashford2ashford/pseuds/ashford2ashford
Summary: It's not Cans' job to think...but he does so anyway.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	It's Not Your Job To Think

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the zine: Eclipse - a Problem Sleuth, Midnight Crew, and Felt zine.

It's not your job to think...but you do.

Thinking is usually reserved for Crowbar or the Doc (the head honcho collective shall we say), but it would be something cruel and twisted to assume that all of you mooks simply don't think at all. 

You have thoughts. Feelings. More inside that body of yours than solid muscle. When you press one massive shovel-like hand to your chest you can feel it there: the beating of your heart. 

Proof of life. Of blood and veins and all of those things that keep a leprechaun like you alive and kicking people into different timelines. 

It's not your job to think, but you can't deny that your entrances are well planned out and meticulously crafted. At the ring of a bell you can make your presence known in a rush of rubble and the thunderous sound of your fist meeting masonry. 

Oh yeah. 

If pressed, you can say that your heart swells with pride to see the startled gawping faces that have everything to fear once you crash into the room. Clattering pebbles that were once solid brick are almost like an applause as they rain down to the floor. A moment to pause and let the dust settle; a moment to appreciate the silence that falls. 

Then all out brawling.

It's not your job to think, but you can appreciate the little things in life. Fists slamming into guts; bones crunching and cracking once they meet bare knuckle; the wounded gasps and sudden realisation that the next time your unfortunate victim opens their eyes they won't even be able to tell what year it is. 

It's almost poetic (well, as poetic as a fight can be). 

You've seen your fair share of fancy fleet-footed scrappy little guys. All of them fall to your unique way of asserting yourself in the pecking order. Itchy can brag all he wants about his speed, but you definitely know where you stand in this happy little gang of yours, and it certainly ain't where your number would suggest. As far as you're concerned, the number is more indicative of the threat level (gets a little sketchy around twelve and thirteen, mind, but those two dumbasses certainly can cause problems when they need to).

It's not that you look down on your fellow green associates - in fact, you can't really help it given your impressive weight and height - not in the slightest. No. It's more that you are aware of your own strength. 

Modesty aside, there's no denying it: you are one of the bigger (literally and metaphorically) threats within The Felt.

It's not your job to think, but sometimes you believe that your reputation as a big dumb brute comes from the constant ebb and flow of time in this place. Crowbar is snappy. He is a man who has to deal with so many different speeds and orders and thoughts and feelings and people and places. So much so that he barks an order and then gets irritated when you don't quite catch it the first time. Curls back his lips and bares his teeth a little as he repeats the order with fewer syllables. 

Fact is: he mumbles. 

A lot. 

So much so that it makes getting his orders right the first time round is a god-damned miracle. Understanding what he's saying when he's deep in thought is rarer than finding a unicorn.

In his eyes, you're the muscle and he's the brains, and you're inclined to agree. The orders go through him and him alone. Doc says it's because his head wouldn't and doesn't explode at the thought of looking outside of the current meta narrative. You say: huh. You guess so. If the Doc says it, it's law. 

It's not your job to think, but you often muse on things when you're not smashing through the walls Kool-Aid Man style. Mainly, you think of things to do, things to say, conversations you should have had, might have, would have had. 

You've often stopped to express a stray thought in Doze's general direction, before realizing that it would probably take a million years to register, but no one can blame you for trying. Sometimes you try to catch a word in with Fin or Trace, but those two are always looking both forwards and backwards at the same time to really pay any attention to the present. 

The only one you seem to be able to catch for a sentence every now and then is Clover. Of course, the little sneak is more interested in pursuing one of his (several) romantic charms with everything that moves (you once swore he was trying on balloons with you when you were trying to answer his recent time-related riddle, but you can never be too sure with him - plus you're more of a rainbows guy when it comes to your own relationships). And yet, even with his flirtatious nature, Clover is fun to talk with when you're not being used as the battering ram and he's not being used as the distraction. 

Sometimes it's literally the little things in life that keep you going. If you didn't have some form of conversation, you'd go mad. Who wouldn't? You've been stuck alone on a planet before. You need to keep and appreciate the company you have. 

It's not your job to think, but you do and you will. Often. About all kinds of things. 

Right now, you're listening out for the tell tale cue that will signal your arrival into the safe room (as in the room with the safe inside, not the safest room in the house, for that would imply you're about to burst in on the Doc's latest monologue) and flexing your hands to make sure that the next person you punch will certainly be feeling it for the next year or so.

The mansion around you is alive with the sounds of gunfire and bomb explosions and shouting. You know that the Midnight Crew are here and meaning all kinds of business, but you're also here and are more than capable of showing them exactly how you conduct business of your own. It's funny: you're kinda excited. Making an entrance is your speciality. 

Playing the big dumb brute is worth it to have the best dramatic timing in the whole city - nay, the whole damn desert!

You're practically grinning as you start to race towards the wall, every step thudding loudly upon the floor, the entire mansion rumbling as you move with the speed and power of a freight train towards the nearest wall.

So you're not the guy whose job it is to think…but you certainly excel at what you do know.

And you know how to make an entrance.

Oh yeah.


End file.
